


An American Heiress in Earls Court

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Sherlolly - Freeform, Victorian, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thomas Adler sends his daughter to visit relatives in England, he imagines her younger cousin Molly Hooper will have a calming influence on the tempestuous beauty. The poor man. If only he realized that influence flows both ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters, other than originals.  
> This story began as a Ladies of Sherlock challenge submission and grew from there.

Molly Hooper's cousin stepped into the bedroom and dropped her dressing gown and sat at the dressing table. She wore only her chemise, knee length drawers, and stockings.

"What?" Irene said at Molly's gasp, raising a delicately arched eyebrow.

She turned to the mirror and began experimenting with her hair. The dark, glossy tresses always looked best framing Irene's heart shaped face, but she'd told Molly that she wanted to do something more elaborate tonight.  

"Well," Molly said, gathering up the dressing gown and laying it on the bed. "First, I've not even seen my little sister in anything less than a petticoat in years. But also. Well. Erm. Irene. Your underthings."

"What about them?" she said in alarm, inspecting her fine silk stockings. "I haven't got any holes or tears do I?"

"No." Molly said. "That's rather the point." She lowered her voice. "They're so—nice. I don't think I've got as much fine lace on my three nicest frocks combined. Did you buy all new things to come here? I don't see why it was necessary. "

"I did buy all new, but not because I was coming here. The other things were worn out and had holes."

"Don't you patch them?"

Irene looked at Molly as though she'd just sprouted horns.

"Some, yes. To keep for when I'm ill," she said. "But otherwise I like all of my things to look and feel nice."

"But, no one's going to see them, so I don't understand."

"I see them, and that's important enough." Irene peered at the younger girl. "Molly, your father is richer than even mine. Are you saying you go around with holes in your underthings? And patches?"

"Well, my father didn't become wealthy from wasting things." Molly groaned. "Oh lord, has my mother seen your things?"

"Well I'm sure your lady's maid's told the housekeeper and the housekeeper's told her plenty. She just wouldn't say anything to you because I'm certain she'd like to pretend you don't even know what underclothes are. Now come on and help me with my hair. Your maid is hopeless with anything but the basics and you have such a nice touch."

The girls had been invited to a fancy dress ball hosted by Captain Gregory Lestrade in honor of his ward Sally's eighteenth birthday. They were to dress as Autumn and Winter, with two of Molly's friends, another pair of cousins, rounding out the year as Spring and Summer. Molly had ordered a rich burgundy velvet cap sleeved evening gown with a bodice just a bit lower than she would normally wear. She usually only had her dressmaker cut her dresses and then sewed them herself, but this one had so much rouching on the two layered skirt and draping on the bustle and train that it was beyond her skill. The dressmaker had sewn on an array of silk autumn leaves in a swirling pattern that complemented the fabric's draping and her milliner had fashioned a lovely matching wreath for Molly's hair. Once the leaves were snipped off, the gown would easily do for any upcoming formal events.

Irene's gown was a vision of silk and gossamer that Molly doubted would ever be suitable for future wear, except to be done over for another fancy dress ball. The style was Grecian inspired, like the gowns from the early part of the century. Molly had seen Irene in it at the final fitting. When she stood still, the gown was deceptively modest, barely skimming her body, showing off her graceful arms and decolette . However, once Irene moved, the fabric clung to her figure, outlining the curve of her hips and legs and, since she wore the less restrictive stays of the time period, even the soft swell of her abdomen. The white silk under layer had been adorned silver and blue beads in snowflake patterns, and the gossamer overlay with enough crystal drops to outfit a moderately sized chandelier. On the dressing table lay two dozen hair pins with the same crystal drops attached.

It was quite a blessing that Molly's mother would not be attending the party, though she knew that Mrs. Hooper would hear all about what her husband's niece had worn by the next morning.

Irene was always "My niece," when Mrs. Hooper referred to her good qualities (her grace and beauty) and accomplishments (lovely singing voice and tidy needlework) but she was "Mr. Hooper's niece" when the older woman disapproved. She usually ended such statements with "but I suppose that's what it's like in America."

Irene had debuted in New York in the spring and had so far refused to marry any of the beaux who flooded the drawing room of her father's townhouse. After a mild scandal involving Irene riding bareback and astride in central park, Mr. Adler had tried to banish her to their country home in New Jersey until she came to her senses, but Irene had somehow convinced him to let her come to London to visit her cousin and see if she found English boys more amenable. He trusted his late wife's brother as a sensible man, and hoped that Irene's serious younger cousin might have a steadying influence on his daughter. 

The girls had not seen each other since they were still in short dresses, when the Adlers had made the voyage to England to spend the summer. They became good friends immediately, sharing a few interests despite the differences in their temperaments, and had kept up a furious correspondence over the subsequent years. Molly had squealed with delight, much to her mother's ire, when the letter had arrived from Mr. Adler asking if he could send Irene for a few months and begged her father to send a telegram in reply instead of writing. Two weeks later, they'd collected Irene and her chaperone (a dour distant relative who wanted to return to Devon) from the docks and ensconced Irene in the pretty guest room that connected to Molly's room.

"Do you want any of it down?" Molly asked as she laid the hair pins out neatly. She did the same with Irene's brush, comb and hair jar.

"All up. Are you arranging my hair or preparing for surgery?"

Molly blushed and began brushing Irene's hair. It hung almost to her waist in soft waves. Irene closed her eyes and practically purred, causing Molly's blush to deepen.

"Shouldn't this wait until you've got your dress on?"

"I can step into it."

Molly pinned Irene's hair in elaborate coils and plaits on top of her head, arranging the adorned hair pins in a halo-like patter. When she saw herself in the mirror, Irene sprang from the chair and gave Molly a fierce hug. The two girls were about the same size, but Irene's strength took Molly by surprise. She hugged her cousin back and then went to call for their maid.

"I don't know why we have to have her when we could help each other get dressed," Irene said.

Molly shrugged. "It's just the way it's done. You have your own maid at home."

"That's because there's no one else to help me, and our corsets tie in back and our bodices button in back and it's ridiculous. Boys' clothes are so much easier to put on."

"You say that as if you've worn them!"

Irene smiled. It was the smile that always appeared right before she said something wicked. "I have. My friend and I dress as boys all the time and go out that way. It's the only way to see certain parts of the city."

Molly sat down on the bed. Thanks to her father's indulgence regarding her education, she did possess a few progressive attitudes, and while she had imagined how lovely it would feel to run around outside wearing trousers, she had never actually thought to do it, despite having a younger brother whose clothes would likely fit her.

"Where do you go? And when? In broad daylight?"

Irene started to answer but was interrupted by the arrival of Kate, their maid. Irene asked her to go fetch her gown from the other room, then sat down beside Molly.

"I'll tell you all about it later," she said. "Or maybe I can just show you. I'm a little tired of going on social calls and riding around the Park."

Before Molly could answer, Kate came back with the gown and the conversation turned to clothes and gossip for the next hour. Molly dressed behind a screen, and as Kate tightened her corset, Molly wished briefly that she hadn't been so practical about her dress for tonight. Irene might scandalize everyone at the party, but at least she would do it in comfort. Molly was so used to wearing a corset that she used to not notice, but a few months ago her mother had begun pestering her about her waist size, even though it hadn't gotten any larger. She imagined it either had something to do with getting her married off, or there was some competition among her mother's friends regarding whose daughter had the smallest waist.

"Kate, that'll do. My frock will be too big if you lace me any tighter."

"Sorry, Miss. Your mum told me that she was concerned about your posture."

"Now, Kate," Irene said. "Look at Molly. Her posture is fine. And my aunt would be much more upset to have her daughter going out in ill-fitting clothes or fainted before she stepped onto the dance floor."

"Yes, Miss Adler," Kate said, and helped Molly into her petticoat. She struggled a bit getting Molly's bustle fastened around her waist, and then on went the heavy skirt and the bodice.

Irene applauded as Molly stepped from behind the screen. She made quick work of her hair, braiding it and pinning it in a thick coil at her crown. She pinned the wreath in place and dismissed Kate as soon as she'd assisted them with their shoes.

Molly pulled Irene over to the chaise near the window. She sat gingerly, careful not to crush her bustle, and once again envied Irene her freedom of movement.

"Now," she whispered. "Tell me everything."

"Well, we don't go out in daylight unless we really dirty up our faces. It's much easier to pass at night."

"But isn't it dangerous? Even for grown men it's not safe in some parts of London after dark. I imagine New York isn't much better."

"Oh in some ways it's worse. But we never go to the really bad parts. Just the parts there the rich boys go to play and pretend they're in the bad part of town. Music halls mostly. Keeps us safe from men who like boys since everyone's there to see the girls."

"But you can't look more than fourteen! How do you get in?"

"We pretend to be errand boys. Gets us in everywhere, even backstage. There's even a few girls we actually run errands for. That's how we got to see the inside of a brothel one night."

"You are teasing me now, Irene!"

Irene clasped Molly's hand in hers and leaned forward. "I promise you, Molly. I would never lie to you. Edith and I ran an errand for a can-can dancer who doesn't just dance for her money. She had us run a note to her mistress saying she wouldn't be returning home that evening, with a description of the man she was going home with. They do that in case something bad happens. "

"What was she like? Her mistress?"

Irene laughed. "I've gotten my hands on more than a few trashy novels, so I was expecting so much velvet and brocade and red and purple everywhere. But it was really not very different from any other home except that all of the bedrooms had been cut in half to create more bedrooms. And of course the number of girls in their underclothes right in the parlor with the men. And the Madame, she was southern, or said she was. Miss Louella, they called her. She smelled better than any woman I've ever been around, and I think she knew right away we weren't boys but didn't say anything. Told me I was welcome back any time, and she might have some small jobs for me."

Molly stared at her cousin for a long moment. "You're not going back to America, are you?" she said softly.

The older girl straightened up slightly, surprised. "What makes you say that?"

"I just can't see you going back there once you've gotten this close to the Continent. And I think you'd rather do anything than settle down and have babies."

"You can keep a secret?"

"Of course, Irene."

"I purposefully ran up an astonishing amount of charges at all of the stores where my father has credit. I knew he wouldn't cut me off, because how I look reflects on him. He started giving me my allowance in cash and told me I couldn't ask for a dime more if I ran out before the month was up. I am actually quite capable of living within my means so I've been saving part of it for the last two years and I have quite enough to travel the Continent for at least a year if I'm careful or settle somewhere in the Mediterranean for longer. "

Molly was completely gob smacked. She'd know Irene to be adventurous, but she'd also thought her to be impulsive. However, this plan had required careful planning.

"Are you going to leave, then?"

"Well, I do still need a companion of some sort in order to not arouse too much curiosity. Miss Louella told me, the only way a woman can have true freedom is to be a wealthy widow or a Madame. But I think that with enough money and an older companion I should be fine. Though it'd be absolutely wonderful to find some wicked poet to run away with, and the best poets are still in England. All we've got is Whitman." Irene shuddered and stood up. "Oh dear, don't look so glum. I don't plan on leaving just yet, and I might lose my nerve at the last moment and go running home to father or marry some impoverished Lord in need of an American heiress to bolster the coffers."

It tickled Molly to hear Irene speak so plainly about such things. More than one of her friends had married into the aristocracy. Objections to new wealth and the merchant class often fell away when faced with crumbling manors and lands that no longer produced any income, but people didn't speak about the matches that way. They were always presented as love matches, with the high born parents showing the right amount of socially acceptable reluctance before welcoming the girl and her income into the fold.

"I'm somewhat afraid that's going to be my fate," Molly sighed. She accepted Irene's outstretched hands and stood up. "I'm only seventeen and I only came out in May, on my birthday, but Mother is already sighing over the lack of suitors."

"Well, Molly, I don't honestly see why you don't have more. I assumed that since your Mother didn't want anyone calling on me until after the party that she'd prevented anyone seeing you in the meantime. You're absolutely lovely to look at and to talk to."

"I'm not, really," Molly said, double checking that her clothes were all in order and searching for her reticule. "Some of them are fine, but with the really charming ones, or the really good looking ones, I either get tongue tied or start talking about inappropriate things."

"Oh do tell!"

"Not those sorts of things. I start talking about anatomy and biology because they're the first things that pop into my mind. Consequently I already have a reputation for being ghoulish and strange. And I probably am. I just wish Mother would give up and Father would let me go to university. But I'm sure that Mother's thrilled you'll be around because you'll have dozens of suitors and she'll make me chaperone and she'll hope one of them falls in love with me when they realize you're out of their league."

"Molly," Irene said, taking her cousin by the shoulders. "Do you want to get married?"

"Yes, of course. One day. To the right man. And I don't even know what that means, but I think it'd have to be someone who doesn't turn green when I mention what I've just read about the thyroid or the spleen. I doubt I'll find him among the set we'll be celebrating with tonight."

"Well, there's only one way to find out. I should probably wear my shawl downstairs if I don't want you mother to faint. Get your wrap. And if we don't find our gentlemen tonight, we'll just have to steal your brother's clothes and see what other sorts London has to offer."

"Irene, you're not serious?"

"Of course I am. Don't worry. It'll be grand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friend Laura, a brilliant costume designer, for answering some of my questions. And thanks to nocturnias for reading an early draft of this and telling me I'm not crazy. Also, I cannot begin to express what a valuable resource the book "Inside the Victorian Home" by Judith Flanders has been.


	2. Chapter 2

Sally Donovan thought longingly of the stack of new books she'd received for her birthday as she gazed out the window at the first carriages arriving for her party.

Greg meant well, and there were a handful of people she'd be glad to see tonight, but she would rather spend the evening by the fire with a book, her kitten curled in her lap, than have to navigate this party.

Everything was always so awkward. Many of the people—children and adults- she'd grown up around meant well, and they all respected her guardian so much that even the adults who disapproved of Greg's raising her kept their mouths shut. But people very often didn't know how to behave around her.

There were even those who still whispered that she wasn't Captain Lestrade's ward at all, but his daughter. Of course they were wrong. She remembered her father, and had a little tintype of him in a leather case, handsome and impossibly young looking in his uniform. She mostly resembled her mother--though the beautiful woman's skin had been darker, the color of cherry wood--but the size and shape of Sally's eyes brought her squarely back to her father.

Sally had spent the first seven years of her life on a small farm in Pennsylvania. Her father had left Philadelphia society in order to be with the woman he loved. When they died, both of influenza, she had been taken in briefly by her mother's friend Bess while waiting for word from Captain Lestrade. Her first night with the family, Bess had braided her hair by the fire, the first time since her mother had fallen ill.

"I know he was wonderful friends with your father, Sarah, but don't get your hopes up. It's a big responsibility for any man to take on a child, especially a bachelor. But to take on a child such as you is an even greater risk. It might ruin his chances of ever getting married. "

"I'd think he'd not want to marry a woman who had such objections anyway," Sally had said.

Bess had smiled wryly. "You're wiser than most, then," she said, and tucked Sally into bed between her two youngest children.

"Why can't I stay here with you?" Sally said. "I know there's money to take care of me."

"I'd love that, baby. And if he doesn't come, maybe we can make it work. But this is what your parents wished. Maybe they wanted a better life for you, away from the shadows of that horrible war and everything that came before it."

Captain Lestrade had shown up, though his letter saying he was coming had been lost and they had almost given up hope when he arrived. He wrested Sally's inheritance away from her father's family, who wanted to lay claim to it without also laying claim to her, and brought her home to London to stay.

She'd been happy, for the most part. Greg was absolutely wonderful and kind and had always treated her like his very own daughter. He answered all of her questions as frankly as he could about the whispers and stares they received when they went on their daily walk. He saw to it that she received the finest education available to girls at the time, hiring tutors after she'd outgrown her governess. In fact, a new tutor would arrive on Wednesday to begin teaching her advanced maths. He would also be instructing Edmund Hooper in chemistry.

Greg did not like gossip, but when he'd told her about the tutor earlier in the week, he gave a few basic facts about his background. The second son of an impoverished aristocrat, the young man had to work for a living while taking a break from Cambridge.

"Taking a break?" Sally had said. "Is he ill?"

"Ah. Well, Sally—"

"He got sent down, didn't he? Forgive me, sir, but why would you hire a tutor for me that's been sent down from university?"

"His brother assures me it was all a misunderstanding. He's attempting to remedy the situation, but until then, young Mr. Holmes has to make his way in the world as he can. I've been assured he's brilliant. He'll instruct you on Wednesdays and Fridays and will work with Master Hooper on the other days. "

"I just don't understand it. Men throwing away their educations when there are women who'd kill to go to university. I'm not sure I would want to, but I know Molly Hooper does. Yet her father probably wouldn't spare a dime to get her a tutor. They stopped educating her formally last year so she has to sneak her brother's textbooks.

"Now, Sally, let's not get too upset about things we can't help." He'd turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "Perhaps you could see to it that Miss Hooper knows she is welcome to visit on Wednesday and Friday mornings."

"I hear she's got a cousin in town so unless she's also keen on algebra, I doubt Molly will be able to take me up on it."

"We'll see," he'd said. "Good day, poppet."

Sally turned from the window. She had to go downstairs to greet her guests. She took one last look in the mirror, adjusting the wings of her costume. She had chosen to go as Titania, Queen of the Fairies. Greg had taken her to see _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ at the Theatre Royal. She had never been one to partake in extreme flights of fancy, but she had been enthralled by the world of the play. She had enjoyed it so much that Greg had given her a copy of the play and several other Shakespearean comedies for her birthday, along with her usual sensation novels, gothic romances and biographies. His sister always admonished him to stop providing her with such "mind rotting tomes," but he couldn't resist how happy they made her.

She'd chosen an evening gown in the modern fashion, with a full bustle and yards of draped fabric, a beautiful indigo silk with silver beading. Without the elaborate wings, it would serve as a suitable gown for formal events, if she bothered to go to any this winter.

The first guests were arriving as she entered the front hall, still pulling on her gloves. Mrs. Morstan and her two daughters. One awful. One delightful. Sally greeted them with the same bright smile and directed them up to the ballroom. This would be the most exhausting part. Greeting all of her guests, being cheerful and polite, remembering everyone's name even if she'd only met them once, it all terrified her. This had been the very reason she'd always resisted his giving her a party. She'd given in due to a moment of weakness and his very earnest pleading. He had really done so much for her and wanted to do this for her as well. So she smiled and made the best of it, happy to flee to the ballroom as soon as a good majority of her guests had arrived. She would dance (her card guaranteed to be full this time as it was her party) and speak to people she liked for long spells and people she didn't like for short spells. It certainly wasn't the best way to spend an evening , but she could make it agreeable. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Of course now he's mostly in lumber but where he really got his start was blockade running during the war. They don't talk about it much, however, because even the Americans find that kind of profiteering to be less than honorable."

Sally smiled tightly at her companion, a gangly young man who'd taken a sudden interest in her over the last month, and hoped that he didn't expect to start calling on her formally now that she could officially be considered to be out socially. He wasn't too bad a sort; he could be highly amusing at times. She merely didn't want him to get the wrong idea about their relationship.

Miss Adler and Miss Hooper had not arrived yet, but that didn't prevent her companion from filling Sally in on every detail he'd been able to suss out about the visiting heiress. His mother was a notorious gossip, and he seemed to have inherited the trait. 

"Mr. Anderson, as altruistic as it might be to smuggle goods past enemy lines out of the goodness of one's heart, I can't really blame a man for wanting to be compensated for risking his life. You also forget yourself when speaking so poorly of Americans."

He paled, something she hadn't thought possible considering his complexion often resembled the paste she used to secure her book plates. "Of course, Miss Donovan. Forgive me. You've lived in England for more than half of your life. You're such a lovely example of an Englishwoman that it's easy to forget."

"Well, my father and mother were American, so it's not so easy for me to forget."

Sally delighted in seeing Mr. Anderson's skin go from the palest of pale to beet red. That was definitely an advantage to her skin tone. While she did blush, quite often, the change was far less noticeable on her than her peers.

"Mr. Anderson," said a remarkably low voice behind Sally and to her right. "A Miss Allston has been making inquiries regarding your whereabouts. I think it might be wise to join her."

Sally and Anderson turned around simultaneously. She found herself looking up into the catlike grey eyes of a complete stranger. He wore no costume other than a black domino and a three cornered hat over his suit. Under the hat, his hair was dark brown, the pomade in it fighting a fruitless battle against what were probably riotous curls. The first impression Sally got of his face was of sharp angles and full lips. He tipped his hat at Sally and turned his attention back to the lamely spluttering Mr. Anderson.

"I don't know what you're implying, but Miss Allston is merely a family friend. I promised her I would lend her a book I brought back from the Continent."

"Well," said the stranger, his eyes widening. "You'd better go fetch it for her."

Anderson looked at Sally, who stared at the stranger. He stuttered a few more nonsense syllables before wishing Sally good evening and wandering away.

Sally turned on the tall stranger. "That was rather rude, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I was under the impression you weren't enjoying the conversation. I can get him back if you'd like."

"I can take care of myself."

"No doubt. That doesn't mean I can't be helpful. It's how gentlemen are supposed to behave, is it not?" His eyes practically twinkled with mirth.

"Who are you, anyhow?"

"We would have been formally introduced on Wednesday, but I couldn't resist getting rid of your pest. Sherlock Holmes."

Her new tutor. Definitely a change from the watery eyed old men and spotty university students Greg usually employed. Though seemingly just as pleased with himself as they all were.

"I don't remember seeing you on the guest list," she said.

"Obviously Captain Lestrade invited me."

"I'm surprised you'd want to associate yourself with the merchant class any more than your circumstances force you to."

He smiled. "One of the interesting privileges of my position. Though most of your fathers could buy and sell mine, I'm the one who can move freely in all manner of society. Within reason of course."

"Scouting for a wife?"

Mr. Holmes shuddered dramatically. "Certainly not. It's my brother's responsibility to refurbish our fortunes. He has the title, after all. I have nothing to offer any of these ladies but a crumbling gamekeeper's cottage and the irrepressible hope that my brother might succumb to some wasting illness before he can produce an heir. I just wanted to get a glimpse of my new peers. Good evening, Miss Donovan. And happy birthday." He tipped his hat again and swept from the room in a swirl of black wool.

Sally had no time to ponder the strange young man before Miss Hooper and Miss Adler arrived, though she barely got a glimpse of the pair before they were surrounded by other young ladies. She started toward the girls, her curiosity piqued. Molly Hooper had a sweet disposition and a lovely face, but she could hardly be called popular. Miss Adler had been accompanying her cousin on social calls, and had apparently made quite an impression. Sally had not yet met the American girl. She usually told the housekeeper to say she was not in, and returned the few cards she received with cards. No matter how polite some of the girls were, she could not shake the impression that they only visited because their mothers didn't want to offend her guardian and had spent too many afternoons receiving guests only to sit in awkward silence.  Unfortunately, this often meant she missed out on visiting with the girls she did have a bond with, such as Molly Hooper.

Sally rarely went out on visits herself, and when she did, there were only two destinations: Miss Hooper and, when she could stomach Isabelle, the Miss Morstans. She decided that she _would_ extend the invitation to Miss Hooper to visit during her lessons with Mr. Holmes. Molly would benefit, and Sally wouldn't have to deal with her tutor alone. She had a feeling he would be quite trying. It looked as though Miss Adler would have no trouble occupying herself while her cousin was gone.

Before Sally could make her way to the cousins, Molly found her.

"Sally! Happy birthday!" Molly said, taking her by the shoulders for a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm so sorry we're late. We stopped to pick up my friends, who were going to be our Spring and Summer, but they had taken ill and aren't coming after all. Then our carriage got stuck in some horrible mud in their drive. Oh, how rude of me! This is my cousin, Miss Irene Adler. She's visiting from New York."

Sally turned and was met with a pair of large China blue eyes set in a heart shaped face belonging to a girl who looked like a rather saucy porcelain doll. She wouldn't have said that those eyes radiated warmth, but they were welcoming and clever and Sally couldn't help but smile.

"Happy birthday, Miss Donovan," she said, taking Sally's hand. "So nice to meet a fellow countrywoman abroad. You make a ravishing Queen of the Fairies, and I'd say it's only fit that you fill in as our Summer, don't you think, Molly?"

"Oh, yes! A Midsummer Night's Dream, of course!" Molly said. "What do you say?"

Sally smiled, still looking at Miss Adler. "Yes. And please, call me Sally."

"Of course. And you must call me Irene."


	4. Chapter 4

Monday morning, Irene sat on a bench in the back garden of her cousin’s home, eyes closed and taking in the very earliest rays of the sun—what could penetrate the coal haze anyway—and reveling in the relative silence.  Birdsong was underscored by the sound of carriages and carts in the lane and the road and the general rabble of servants starting their long day of work.  She did this every morning as long as the weather was fine. Her hosts were unaware of this part of her morning routine, and had they known, all of them—even Molly—would be scandalized, since she undertook it in her nightclothes and dressing gown. 

So far she hadn’t been caught out, which surprised her, considering how many of the servants came in through the lane gate when sneaking back inside. Perhaps they did notice, but didn’t want to have to answer questions about just why they’d happened across Miss Adler half naked in the garden at dawn.

A rustling in the foliage caught Irene's ear, and she opened her eyes to find a handsome young man, rooted to the ground and speechless in front of her.  He averted his gaze as soon as her eyes met his.

“Excuse me. I didn’t know the garden was—occupied. I came in from the lane because I wanted to examine the herb garden. And I wasn’t told if I should use the servant’s entrance or the front. They said I should come for breakfast.”

Irene drew the front of her dressing gown closed and tied it. Not for her sake, but for his.

“Are you Edmund’s new tutor?”

“Yes, Miss Adler,” the young man said, still not looking at her, the tops of his fine cheekbones blazing.  She had a strange feeling that he only did so because he was supposed to, not out of any real sense of decency. 

“How do you know I’m not Miss Hooper?” Irene said, standing up.

At this he met her gaze, his cool eyes flicking over her once.  “I’ve heard quite a lot about you both. I don’t recall hearing that Miss Hooper was quite so—spirited.”

Irene smiled.  “Oh, I’m going to like you. Have you ever been to Italy?”

He blinked at her.  “Excuse me?”

She laughed.  “Nothing. Go inside. Use the servant’s door today and they’re sure to tell you to avoid such nonsense in the future, though it will secretly please Mr. Hooper who is terribly insecure about having worked for all his money.”

He looked at her a beat longer, brow furrowed, and made his way to the back door.  Irene snuck in through the conservatory a few minutes later and hopped into her bed before Kate came in with her hot water.  

“Leave it,” she said. “I don’t need help today.”

“But Miss Adler,” Kate started.

“I said leave it,” Irene said, giving the poor girl what she hoped was an imperious but not too terrifying look.  The girl scampered out, uttering an apology.

Irene washed herself quickly, thinking wistfully of her enormous copper tub with its hot running water.  She could take a bath here, but it took ages for the water to be hauled upstairs. It astounded her that her uncle didn’t find it necessary to update his home with running water. She shook her head and dried herself, shivering until she’d put on her chemise, stockings, and bloomers.  She admitted defeat when it came to her corset, sighing as she pulled on the bell.

Kate opened the door between Irene’s and Molly’s rooms and poked her head in.  “I’m in here helping Miss Hooper.  I’ll be back in just a moment, Miss.” 

“I’ll wait in Molly’s room,” Irene said.

Molly sat at her dressing table, playing with her hair. Kate sat on the chaise, sewing a button onto Molly’s bodice. Irene almost told Molly about her encounter with the new tutor in the garden, but stopped when she remembered she’d have to tell her why she’d been in the garden and how she’d been out when she wasn’t dressed yet.  Irene felt no shame about her actions, but she knew that no matter how much Molly loved her, she wouldn’t understand, not really.

“Good morning,” Molly said.  “You always look so lovely in the morning. All pink and glowing.”

“Oh stop it,” Irene said, examining the green organdy skirt laid out on the bed.  “This is nice.  Are we going calling today?”

“No,” Molly said.  “Edmund’s tutor is joining us for breakfast, remember?  Mother told us to look nice.  Well, decent is how she put it.”

“Oh yes,” Irene said.  “The blue lawn then, Kate. I’ll dress in here.”

“Yes, Miss Adler.”  Kate snipped her thread and laid Molly’s bodice next to the skirt, then went to Irene’s room to retrieve her dress.

“Molly,” Irene said, draping herself across Molly’s bed.  “Remember what I said on Friday, about going out?”

The younger girl turned to her cousin.  “You weren’t serious, were you?  Please tell me you weren’t.”

“If you don’t want to do it, why should it matter if I’m serious?”

“Because, if you’re serious I’ll end up going.  You’ll make sure of it.”

Irene smiled and sat up.  “So it’s settled?  Today’s wash day, so we can nick some of Edmund’s things more easily.”

Molly glanced toward the door and back to her cousin.  “Okay. But just to try it out. To see if I can pass. Nowhere dangerous.”

“Certainly,” Irene said. 

Kate returned with Irene’s dress and corset. Once they were laid out, Molly dismissed her, saying she and Irene would help each other.  The poor girl looked frightened to say yes, until Molly told her she might be able to catch a few moments with Peter, Edmund’s valet.  Kate’s rushed out with a breathy “Thank you, miss,” leaving the two girls alone to plot.

“I already know a good way to sneak out,” Irene said as tightened Molly’s laces. 

“How do you know—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Irene said, giving the laces a hard yank. “The biggest problem is going to be shoes. Edmund’s got absolutely enormous feet.  But I think that in the dark our winter boots will pass.”

Molly helped Irene with her corset and the two girls put on their skirts.

“When are we doing this?” Molly said as she put her arms into her bodice.  Irene began fastening the buttons.

“Tonight, of course.  Less chance the clothes will be missed.”

“Right, and he’s so particular, he always wears his things in the same order.”

When Irene’s bodice was on and buttoned, they examined themselves in the mirror.  They decided on simple braids for their hair, predicting that Mrs. Hooper would be more angry about their being tardy than she would about hasty hairstyles. 

“We’ll go to the laundry after breakfast. I’ll distract Ellen with some inane instructions about how my clothes should be handled, and you’ll grab the clothes.  Deal?”

Molly pursed her lips in thought for a second, then smiled.  “Deal.”


	5. Chapter 5

Molly Hooper had never been in love. She’d never even particularly fancied a man. When she'd come out into society, her experience with men had been limited to those of her household and the ones she saw on the street.  Rose and she had been educated at home and their social life consisted of going calling with their mother on occasion or receiving visits from other ladies and their daughters. The very few suitors who had called on her rarely lasted more than two visits.  Kate, who chaperoned the visits, told her forlorn mistress that she needed to be lively and talk about unimportant things, but Molly had been lucky if she could speak at all.  She didn’t know how to talk to strangers, and all of the men were just that. 

She recalled with shame the conversation she’d overheard between her mother and her maid, Simmons.

“I sometimes wish we’d had the boy first, so he’d have friends older than Molly.  Mr. Hooper and my brother were friends.  He said he always saw me as this skinny little thing in pigtails until suddenly he didn’t.  Of course, growing up as Thomas and I did, there weren’t quite so many restrictions.”

Margaret Hooper rarely spoke of her childhood.  They had been far from destitute, but they had not grown up in anything close to resembling the style in which their own children were being raised.  Thomas Adler had moved to America immediately after Margaret’s wedding, making his fortune there while his new brother in law bought a small hardware store that would expand into an empire. 

“She’ll do well for herself, ma’am, and even if she doesn’t marry, she won’t go hungry,” Simmons said.

“Well, at least Rose will have the benefit of an older brother and his friends. Not that Rose will need it, with that face and hair. As long as she calms down a bit. Though boys these days seem to like the lively ones.”

“We’ll pray Miss Hooper will find one who likes the quiet type, ma’am.”

Molly had walked away from her mother’s door, determined not to cry about being declared a hopeless case a month after her birthday.

The next time a suitor came to visit, she mustered up as much charm and vivacity as she could manage, and the young man had been enamored.  When he came for a second visit, however, Molly reverted to her old ways.  She couldn’t stomach the idea of snagging this poor boy under false pretenses, and the alternative was to continue the charade for the rest of her life. He'd asked her if she felt well and had even come back a third time, but never again after that.

Then Irene had come, and after Sally’s party, at which Irene was an unsurprising favorite, Molly expected that the eligible men would be clamoring to find a connection that could gain them a formal introduction to her cousin.  She didn’t begrudge Irene her charm and beauty. She only marveled at how effortless her cousin made it seem.

Never having experienced anything close to love, Molly didn’t know exactly what happened to her when she walked into her dining room and first saw Sherlock Holmes. Nothing she'd read in any novel had prepared her for it.

He stood by the table where breakfast had been laid buffet style, his back to the door, looking out the window so that all she saw was a tall, slender figure in a well fit but worn suit. 

He turned around when Mrs. Hooper greeted the girls, and Molly gasped, loud enough for her mother to ask what was the matter.

“I stepped on her toe,” Irene said.

Molly barely registered her mother’s question or her admonishment to Irene to be more careful.  Her mouth had gone dry and her heart raced as if she’d gone up the stairs too quickly.

He was beautiful.  Or he was more than that.  Taken individually she wouldn’t think his features would fit, but the high cheekbones and the full lips with their Cupid’s bow, and large tilted eyes somehow worked, despite the stern set to his brow and mouth. One lank curl escaped his parted hair and hung over his forehead.  She longed to put it back in its place.

When he’d first turned around he’d looked at Irene as if something amused him, then stiffened when he looked at Molly, an odd expression on his face.  For a moment she was horrified that something was amiss with her clothing or hair, but Irene would have told her if that were the case.  She still looked down to briefly inspect her dress. No stains or holes that she could see.  When she looked up his expression was neutral.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, this is my daughter, Molly, and Mr. Hooper's niece, Irene Adler.  Don’t just stand there, girls,” Mrs. Hooper said.  “Edmund and Rose have been at the table for almost a quarter of an hour and Mr. Holmes has had to endure Cook’s conversation for at least the last hour downstairs.”

“The time positively flew, Mrs. Hooper,” the young man said.

Molly stepped up to the buffet table, barely noticing what the footman put on her plate.  “Where’s Papa?” Molly squeaked.

“It’s a normal work day for him, Molly. He had his breakfast early and went to his office. He’s already met Mr. Holmes.” She peered at her daughter.  “Are you coming down with something?  Your voice is croaky and you’re quite white.” 

“No, Mummy. I just took the stairs too quickly.”  Molly risked a glance at Mr. Holmes and found him gazing at her again, remotely, as though he were looking at a rock or tree. 

“We stayed up too late talking again, Auntie. “I’m a terrible influence.” Irene said as they took their seats. 

“Do let her get some rest tonight, dear. And perhaps you shouldn’t receive anyone today if you’re not feeling well?”

“I’m fine, Mummy,” Molly said.  She wanted to sink through the floor. Here she was, meeting this gorgeous man for the first time while her mother treated her like an infant.

Mrs. Hooper sat at the head of the table with Molly to her left and Sherlock to her right.  Irene sat next to Molly, and Edmund next to Mr. Holmes.  Rose tried to sit at the other end of the table but her  mother made her sit next to Irene.

Why did they seat him right across from her?  She could hardly look up without seeing him, and even if she didn’t meet his eyes every single part of him was beautiful enough to set her cheeks ablaze.  This would not do.  She thought about Sally’s invitation to sit in on her algebra lessons and almost laughed at the absurdity. She wouldn’t learn a thing; she’d be too busy staring at his hands, as she was doing right now.

“Molly, I need to speak to you about Miss Collins.”

“Who?” Molly says, jerking her head up and toward her mother. She swore she could see him smiling in her peripheral vision.

“For goodness sake, Molly. Your lady’s maid. Kate, as you call her.”

“Why shouldn’t I call her that?” Molly said.

“Collins is a proper lady’s maid now, Molly.  You shouldn’t call her by her first name anymore.”

“Mummy, I’ve known Kate since we were twelve and she was a chamber maid.  It’s rather silly to start calling her ‘Collins’ now.”

“It may be silly to you but it’s how it’s done, and it shows respect for her position as an upper servant.”

“Can’t I just ask her what she prefers?” Molly said, earning a stifled giggle from Irene and a smirk from Mr. Holmes.

Mrs. Hooper ignored her daughter, turning to the young tutor.  “How many servants did your father employ, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know, Mrs. Hooper,” he said, eyes still on Molly.  “Half the house was shut up by the time I was born and I only ever really came in contact with my nanny and Cook and whoever happened to be in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” Mrs. Hooper said, hand to her chest.  “Were you in the kitchen often?”

Sherlock finally turned to Mrs. Hooper.  “Nearly every day, until I went to school and also on holidays.  It was always warm and there was food.  Mrs. Hudson had me on the most ridiculous diet. Everything bland and mushy. but Cook was always good for a bit of real food.”

“Children have very delicate systems, Mr. Holmes.  I’m sure your nanny and your mother were only doing what was best for you.  I certainly hope,” she said, glaring at Molly, Edmund and Rose by turns, “that our own cook hasn’t been sabotaging your diets all these years.”

Molly spoke up first.  “Of course not, Mother.  If we wanted anything between meals  we got bread and a little skimmed milk.”  She glared at Edmund and Rose, willing them to keep quiet.  Edmund opened his mouth to speak and Irene kicked him under the table.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“It was an accident, please forgive me, Eddie.”  The boy, who was rather besotted with Irene, turned crimson and looked down at his plate. Irene looked at the tutor.  “Mr. Holmes, where did you go away to school?”

“I thought Americans didn’t care about such things.”

“Only when it comes to other Americans,” she said.

Mr. Holmes sighed and recited, “Bilton Grange then Eton, then King’s College, Cambridge. Miss Hooper, you could always give your maid a French name.  That’s what my mother did.  Her real name was the same as my mother’s ,which would not do, of course, so she dubbed her Madeleine.” His lips were upturned but his eyes were hard.  Molly didn’t know if he was making a serious suggestion or making fun of her.

Edmund butted in before Molly could reply. “We’ve got two called Susan so we call one of them Jane.”

”Thrilling,” Mr. Holmes replied. He pulled out his pocket watch.  “Well, Master Hooper, it’s a fine day for a walk and we’ll just get one in before lessons start if we leave now.”

“A walk, Mr. Holmes?” Molly said.

“Yes. I’d like to learn more about what Edmund already knows and it would be less awkward if we were having a bit of a constitutional rather than facing each other in the classroom. Is there a problem?”

Mrs. Hooper looked at her boy with a mixture of sorrow and fondness, her brown eyes softening.  “Edmund has only just recovered from scarlet fever, Mr. Holmes.  It’s the entire reason he’s home from school this year.  Didn’t Mr. Hooper tell you?”

Mr. Holmes appeared for a moment as though he were reading an invisible letter suspended before his eyes.  His irises danced back and forth rapidly. 

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “Sorry, filed that bit away too soon.  No exercise at all then?”

“The doctor has advised against it for the time being, but Edmund will show you the garden, won’t you dear?”

“Yes, Mum,” Edmund said, looking intently at his plate.

“I’ve already seen a good part of it,” said Mr. Holmes, eyes flicking to Irene.  “But I’m certain there are hidden wonders among the showier aspects.”  He rose, followed by Edmund.  “Good morning, ladies. Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Hooper.”  He bowed his head and followed Edmund out of the dining room.

Rose dissolved into giggles, which she stifled upon a look from Mrs. Hooper.  “You’re quite done with your breakfast, then?”  Rose nodded, her blonde curls bouncing.  “Then you may go to the morning room and practice the piano.  I’d rather Miss Tuttle not look quite so grim after your next lesson.”

“Yes, Mum,” Rose said.  She maintained a stately pace as she exited, but as soon as she ducked out of sight, there was no mistaking the sound of running feet.

Mrs. Hooper sighed deeply. “Why must she run everywhere she goes?  I took her out with me last week and it was all I could do to keep her running down the high street.”

“Dearest aunt,” Irene said. “I’m almost certain I recall my father telling me a story about you rolling a hoop from one end of the block to the other on your thirteenth birthday because the boys said you couldn’t.”

“That is enough, young lady,” Mrs. Hooper said.  “Isn’t today your at home day?  I will not allow either of you to receive callers with your hair in that state. Go upstairs at once.”

“Yes, Mum,” Molly said. 

“Yes, Aunt.” Irene said.

As they left the dining room, Molly made for the stairs but Irene grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the downstairs door.  “Laundry?” she whispered.  Molly stared blankly.  “Edmund’s clothes?”

“Oh, yes.” Molly said. 

“Come on, then.  And maybe while we’re downstairs, Cook will give us a biscuit or two.”

Molly looked back toward the stairs as she followed Irene, wondering if she might really be better off doing as her mother said and going up to fix her hair.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes sat with Edmund Hooper on the same stone bench where he’d encountered Irene Adler that morning.  After Edmund had shown him the herb garden, he’d told the boy he was rather tired from lack of sleep and asked if he minded resting. Edmund had looked at him gratefully and said yes. Church bells rang the hour, sending a flock of pigeons flying overhead.  The gardener sang as he put away his wheelbarrow and went inside for a cup of tea.

Sherlock wondered if anyone but Mrs. Hooper knew that Edmund was dying.

Liver failure most likely, a complication of his illness, obvious in the slight yellow cast of his skin, the negligible appetite and the way he favored his right side when he stood up or sat down. Perhaps Miss Hooper knew, or suspected; he’d heard she had an interest in biology that some termed ghoulish. He supposed that the father would know if the mother did.  Doctors usually told the man of the house and left it to him to decide who could handle the news. 

Did Edmund know? Even if he’d never been told, which was likely, would the body let the mind in on its secret?

Sherlock sighed. It didn’t matter, anyway.  Anyone of them could all die in a boiler explosion or be run over by an omnibus that very day. The boy seemed bright enough, and keen to learn, so he wouldn’t frustrate his teacher too thoroughly. 

“Edmund, do your sisters have a governess?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, sir.  They used to, but since Molly turned seventeen she took over teaching Rose.  The governess didn’t get along well with Rose and didn’t want to spend all day with her without Molly around so she got a situation somewhere else. Molly volunteered to teach Rose. She said it’s so she can stay sharp.  I think it’s because she doesn’t want to spend all day doing needlework.”

“I don’t blame her, seeing as she’s terrible at it.”

Edmund turned to Sherlock.  “She’s awful at it. How’d you know?”

“It’s quite obvious. She has an abundance of needle pricks on her fingertips, many more than the average lady, and thicker calluses.  She takes twice as long because she constantly has to take the thread out and start again.”

The boy took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and put them back on.  “What about Irene?”

“Does excellent work and her hand hardly ever slips, though she hates it as much as your sister does.”

“How’d you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve never met a young lady who enjoys it.” 

They fell into silence again, and Sherlock contemplated the two older girls. Same height, close in weight and with similar proportions. Both clever. Large eyes, small mouths and delicate features. . Looking at them from the outside, one would expect them to be bitter rivals, yet they were thick as thieves. Miss Adler, though only a year older, took on a protective role, and the two of them were capable of communicating without words.  Miss Adler seemed particularly attuned to Miss Hooper’s needs.

Despite all the peripheral information he’d collected on Miss Hooper, she’d been frustratingly hard to read. He’d heard of her cleverness but it certainly hadn’t been on display at table.  On the surface she looked like any other delicate English rose who spent too much time indoors doing tedious busy work and not enough time exercising her mind. However, underneath the pallor brought on by her supposed overexertion, her skin had a fine rosy tone and her arms seemed sturdy beneath the thin fabric of her day dress. 

He supposed she could be attracted to him.  She had been staring at his hands during breakfast, and it would explain the breathlessness and stumbling over her words.  Certainly a tedious development, but it likely wouldn’t take much to put her off of him forever, though he would have to tread carefully. If he were too rude to her it might endanger his employment. Until Mycroft worked his miracles and got him back into school, he was at the mercy of Mr. Hooper and Captain Lestrade.

Sherlock pulled out his pocket watch.  “Edmund, if you don’t mind, I’d like our first lesson to veer a bit from pure chemistry.  An associate of mine is excising a rather large scleroma from a patient’s nasal passage today, and he’s promised me the specimen.  If we leave soon we might be able to watch the procedure.”

“Oh that would be amazing!” Edmund said.  “Are we to bring it back here?”

“Yes.  Your father provided me a small allowance to set up some lab equipment in the nursery.  It should arrive before we return.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide.  “Wow.  Can Molly watch when we dissect? I know it’s oddbut she’d be chuffed.  I don’t know about Irene. She may be a little more squeamish.”

Damn. The last thing he wanted to do, if Miss Hooper were indeed attracted to him, was to encourage any sort of attachment by spending any unnecessary time with her. All the same, it seemed unfair to deprive her of the experience.  He rarely found people who enjoyed these kinds of things, so it would be nice to have someone else to talk things over with other than a thirteen year old whose interests were purely morbid.

And if he’s honest, spending time with him would provide the fastest cure to any romantic ideas she was no doubt already harboring.

“Alright, but just to watch. I only ordered two scalpels.”

When Sherlock and Edmund strolled into Dr. Watson’s practice they were not welcomed in the manner Sherlock expected. 

“Absolutely not,” he said, mustache bristling. “I told you you could have the bloody thing, I never said anything about watching me remove it, much less with a student in tow.  Hello.”  He gave a quick wave and nod to Edmund.

“Edmund Hooper,” the boy said, extending his hand.  “I won’t be a bother, and I’ve watched sheep and other animals being born and getting snipped when I spent the summer with a friend near Plymouth. I won’t turn green or anything.”

Sherlock smiled.  John may have been nearly immune to his own charms, but he couldn’t resist that eager face or the boy’s gentle earnestness. 

The doctor sighed and shook hands with Edmund.  “Come along then.  Though I should make this one wait out here,” he said, jabbing a finger at Sherlock.  “You’re both waiting until I’ve administered the ether, though. 

John stalked out of the room and down the stairs to the surgery.  Ten minutes later his nurse came to fetch them.  The doctor made both of them sit in chairs in the corner of the room. The nurse tended to the patient, an elderly man with ruddy cheeks and a grotesquely swollen nose.

“Edmund, you can ask as many questions as you like,” John said. “Sherlock, not a word.”

“I was going to tell him about how you’d been studying Lister’s methods in regards to sanitation while operating but—“

“Save it for the classroom.”

Though he twitched with irritation at not being allowed to comment on John’s work, his mood lightened as he pocketed a monaural stethoscope left lying carelessly on the table nearest him.  So uplifted was he, that he managed a “Well done!” to his friend when the procedure was complete.

Three hours later, they arrived back in Earls Court with the growth in a jar of isopropyl alcohol.  They opened the door to the nursery to find boxes of lab equipment stacked in the corner, and Molly Hooper looking through the lens of Sherlock’s microscope, which he’d had sent over from his home.

“Oh!” she said, stepping back quickly from the table with her hands behind her back.  “I didn’t mean.  I wasn’t—Irene is napping and I wasn’t tired so—I’m sorry.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something snide but what came out was “Don’t be.”

She smiled, revealing a set of dimples he’d somehow failed to notice earlier.  “I’ve never seen one in person. “

“We’ve got a scleroma, Molly!” Edmund said holding up the jar and saving Sherlock from doing something asinine like telling her she could use it whenever she liked.   “And you get to watch us dissect it.”

“Well, that would be nice,” she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.  “But it’s not exactly chemistry is it?”  She hazarded a smile at Sherlock and he couldn’t help but return it.

Damn it.

“No,” he said. He attempted to scowl.  “But we are going to dissolve it in acid when we’re finished.”

“Alright,” she said.  “As long as you don’t use the good China.”  She giggled at her own joke while Edmund groaned. Sherlock managed to stifle a chuckle.

“Well, I’ll fetch my apron.”  She said and darted from the room. 

While they waited for her to return, they began unpacking the boxes.

“She’s not too bad, for a sister,” Edmund said

 “No,” Sherlock said.  “I suppose not.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Feigning a headache had always been Irene’s favorite way of avoiding things she did not want to—like receiving callers--because it was impossible to prove if she was faking or not. The only people she’d met at the party who’d interested her at all were Mary Morstan and Sally Donovan, but the former had a horrible younger sister who would likely accompany her and the latter, according to Molly, hardly ever made calls.  Irene had even less interest in receiving any of the young men she’d danced with, though those would have been easier to refuse if she had been taking callers, as she hadn’t been formally introduced to any of them.

Nevertheless, it was easier overall to delicately pinch the bridge of her nose, sigh, and sneak away for a nap, softly muttering apologies as she went. Luckily, Aunt Margaret had sent Molly upstairs as well with instructions that both of their luncheons should be brought upstairs and a warning that the doctor would be called if either of them still felt poorly by dinner.

That left her aunt to receive the ladies and their daughters and shoo away the men, one task she relished and one she performed with great regret.  The doorbell rang so frequently that, had Irene been set on sleeping, it would have been impossible.

She passed the time reading, taking inventory of her jewelry and writing in her journal.  There was also the matter of the small bundle of clothes shoved under her bed.  Several times, she gave into temptation and took them out.  Shortpants and jacket in a rich grey, a white shirt and black socks. She hadn’t tried them on yet, not wanting to fuss with her corset, but they looked similar in size to what she wore in New York.  Molly’s suit was a chocolate brown and her socks camel colored. They would only need to knick a couple of Edmund’s hats—a task best performed right after dinner when everyone was occupied-- and they’d be set.

Not long after they’d settle din, she heard Molly quietly leave her room and go up to the nursery. She returned and left again in quite a hurry an hour or so after that.  Later, Irene  awoke from a doze by Molly clattering down the stairs to her room and slamming the door.  A few seconds later her cousin began weeping, soft, hiccupping sobs that sounded more like choking the more the poor thing tried to suppress them.

Irene crept to the door that separated their rooms and gently knocked.

“Molly, don’t tell me you’ve really fallen ill.  It’ll ruin our plans for tonight.”

“Oh Irene please go away.” Molly said. “I don’t care about that.”

“Darling you don’t really mean that.  May I come in?”

Silence, broken by a few shuddering sobs and a soft sound of assent.

She expected to find Molly prostrate on her bed, but she sat on her chaise, arms crossed in front of her and leaning forward.  Irene hurried over to sit beside her.

“My dear what’s the matter?” she asked, putting her arms around the miserable girl.

“I’m so stupid,” Molly said. 

“That’s not a bit true and you know it.”

They sat for a few more minutes while Molly gained control of herself.  When her sobs subsided, she ended up lying with her head in Irene’s lap as Irene petted her hair.

“It was all so splendid at first,” she began.

“What, darling?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.  I went upstairs to look at what had been delivered to the nursery, and there was a microscope already out, set on the table.  I’d never seen one before up close so I took a look into it and I got so engrossed that I didn’t notice when Mr. Holmes and Edmund came back.

“Oh dear. Was he cross with you?”

“No. Though when I came back after getting my apron, he did point out that I’d changed my hair. And I had but just to make sure it wasn’t in my face.  And he told me--he told me that the side part with the braid suited me better, that it looked less…plain.” Molly squeezed her eyes shut.  “But once they started working it was lovely. Edmund and he were dissecting  a scleroma, that’s a bit like a tumor, but not quite.  And they let me watch. Mr. Holmes even cut off a bit and fixed it on a slide so I could look at it in the microscope.  He stood over me while he showed me how to use it and when he came to check on me he praised my sketches of the cell structure.”

“That’s…nice.” 

“Yes, and he smelled like…like tobacco, and lavender and well, horses a bit but not really.  And then I had to ruin it.” She made a small sound like a kicked puppy and buried her face in Irene’s skirt.

She nudged Molly to sit up so she could look at her.  “Tell me what happened.”

It had been glaringly obvious this morning that Molly fancied Mr. Holmes.  Irene couldn’t fathom how Aunt Margaret had remained oblivious to it. A real infatuation coupled with Molly’s awkwardness with men in general meant the possibilities for Molly embarrassing herself were actually endless.

“Well, Edmund went to lie down and after we cleaned up I told Mr. Holmes I was thinking about having some tea in the garden since we don’t have many fine days left. Ohhh.”  She hid her face in her hands.

“Go on.”

Molly took a deep breath, exhaled and uncovered her face. “He just sort of smiled at me and said that if they were making some for me to have some sent up to him, too.  Then he turned back to his work. I stood there for a while and then I said alright and left.”

Irene waited for more.  When her cousin didn’t continue, she said “Is that all?”

“It’s mortifying! I don’t know what got into me, to be so bold! And I’m sure he only feigned ignorance to try to save me some embarrassment.  I’m such a disaster!”  With a groan, Molly dropped her head back into Irene’s lap.  A few more tears escaped but she didn’t resume her sobbing.

“Molly, dearest,” Irene said, rubbing her thin shoulders. “This is not the end of the world.  Though, if you think you won’t be able to face him again you can always have him sent away.”

“No!” Molly said, popping up.  “Edmund already adores him and Mr. Holmes was very kind to him, in his own way.  I couldn’t do that!”

“Then it’s settled.  The only thing you can do is tell yourself that he was being neither nice nor cruel; he merely misunderstood your invitation.”

“Do you really think so?”

Irene retrieved her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears from Molly’s cheeks before handing it to her to blow her nose. “It doesn’t matter.  What matters is how you behave.”

Molly sniffed. “How should I behave?”

“As though it never happened.  He won’t bring it up. Despite being so blunt he’s too well bred for that. And if he does bring it up, you act as though you have no idea what he’s talking about.  You were merely remarking on the weather.”

“I’ll try,” Molly said, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. Her little knuckles were white from the effort. 

Irene considered letting her in on her observations of Mr. Holmes’ behavior at breakfast. Mr. Holmes had not been entirely able to hide the glances he cast on Molly from everyone.  However, since she might be wrong about the reason behind those glances, she decided it would be best to not get Molly’s hopes up, or make her more nervous than she already was.

Some delicate maneuvering was definitely in order, but first they had a city to explore.


	8. Chapter 8

John Watson was already sat in his chair when Sherlock arrived to their rooms in Baker Street that evening.  After taking tea with the servants downstairs, he’d gotten a bit distracted examining Cook’s apothecary journal, which had been passed down to her from her father.

“Edmund seemed not too dull a pupil, even by your standards,” John said as Sherlock took up his violin. “How was the rest of the family?”

“She’s fine.”

“She?”

“They. They’re fine. Perfectly ordinary.”  Sherlock sawed off a few notes as he looked out the window.

“And she is?”

“There are two daughters, and an American cousin. The household is riddled with women. “

“All of them fine?”

“Oh for God’s—if you must continue this ridiculous line of questioning, one in particular, the older daughter, Miss Molly,  was at the forefront of my mind, and only because she’s a bit of a budding scientist and joined us for our lesson this afternoon.  Not a bad mind.  Unobtrusive.  Are you satisfied?”

“Yes.”  John sat back and considered.  “One last thing.  Is she of marrying age?”

“I believe so, though I don’t know why you insist on playing matchmaker all the time.  I have no ambitions in that regard.  I told you that after you embarrassed yourself flinging me at Miss Violet Hunter.”

“You said yourself she was the cleverest woman you’d ever met!”

“Yes, but unlike you, I don’t see every virtue a woman possesses as a tick off the list of what makes a good wife.”

“Well, who said I was asking for you, anyhow?  It’d be nice to have a wife who might also be interested in nursing.  Save me some money in the long run.”

Sherlock whirled and faced his friend.  “Miss Hooper wishes to become a physician.  Would it be ‘nice’ to have a wife as competition?”

“Well in that case I think I’d retire and let her make the money!”

Sherlock opened his mouth and snapped it shut.  He exhaled loudly through his nose and stalked to the door, retrieving his coat on the way.

“Oh come, now, Sherlock.  Where are you going?”

“Out,” he said, struggling with his coat. “You can come with me but only if you stay silent. If you must speak, make it about something of importance.”

“Are we going to the Imperial?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  But you’ve got a job now so I’m not paying this time.”

John remained silent once they were in the cab.  He was actually quite good at knowing just how far to go with his jesting. 

His friend may have gone a bit further than he realized this time, however.

Try as he might to distract himself, Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about this afternoon. He had enjoyed Miss Hooper’s quiet company.  She was curious, bright, and above all, capable.

He’d known very well that Miss Hooper wanted him to join her for tea.  He thought that feigning ignorance was the kindest way to rebuff her.  However, as she’d retreated, cheeks blazing, it had been clear that he’d embarrassed her keenly, and it _bothered_ him.  He kept coming back to it and wondering what would have been the harm in taking tea with her outside. Nothing scandalous. Hardly an act of courtship.

 Since the age of fifteen, Sherlock had been rebuffing the advances of young (and not so young) ladies, often much more harshly, yet it had never made him feel…remorseful.  

Nothing about his regret came from who the young lady was.  She didn’t seem the type to go running to her father and having him dismissed over the smallest slight. He simply regretted the way his actions made her feel. 

He managed to push that train of thought aside as they pulled up to the music hall.  The Imperial wasn’t a grand place—neither of them could afford anything grand—but the music was excellent due to a band leader who’d been a world class operatic composer before his drinking forced him to give up the finer concert halls, and the entertainment was occasionally witty.  For Sherlock, however, the main draw was the wide variety of people that crowded the hall. It was a fine venue for watching everyone from the poorest immigrant spending a hard earned extra shilling, to slumming aristocrats who weren’t quite brave enough for the city’s rougher locales. 

Sherlock had a knack for patterns, and it showed itself especially well when it came to reading people.  Not necessarily their emotions, but the details that shaped their lives.  Occupation, family, health, habits, lifestyle.  He was also fantastic at finding lost objects. He hadn’t figured out yet a practical application for these skills, but he honed them constantly.  He’d briefly considered medicine, but realized quickly he lacked the social finesse necessary for healing. Police work was a possibility, but to say that Sherlock Holmes had problems with authority was putting it rather mildly.  Science was fine as a hobby, but he lacked the motivation for extensive research, using his knowledge to answer whatever question came to mind. Teaching was barely tolerable and a means only to keeping him from having to move back to the country.  

In the spring, a carnival had come to Oxfordshire, and he’d got it in his head to skive off school and travel with the carnival as a psychic medium. Though he’d greatly impressed the owner, he’d balked at the description of the physical labor they required of everyone for setup and tear down.  When he said he’d just make enough to hire a boy to do his work, the boss had laughed and told him to piss on back to school. He had, but had been sent down before the term was out.

“Lively crowd,” John said, breaking his reverie.

The crowd was in good spirits, likely due to the abundance of fine weather as well as the generous politicians handing out free ale.  He thought about getting up to inform a young man that the woman he sat with was married with several children, despite her maidenly appearance, when two boys caught his eye.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“What?” John asked.

Sherlock pointed to the two lads in the corner. 

“What about them? We’ve both seen younger boys and girls in here.”

Sherlock smiled.  “Go tell the dark haired one that I’ll give him tuppence to take a message to a friend in Charing Cross Road.  Then send them over.”

“What friend?  What message? What are you up to?”

“You’ll find out shortly.  Go.”

Sherlock pulled his hat brim down lower and took a long draft of his ale as John made his way over and spoke to the lads. The fairer one seemed reluctant, but the dark haired one pulled him over by the hand. As they approached, the dark haired boy opened his mouth, likely to say something sassy, but snapped it shut as Sherlock pushed his hat back and lowered his mug.  The fairer one looked like he needed to lie down.

“Miss Hooper.  Miss Adler,” he said, nodding to them in turn.

John looked between the ladies and Sherlock with bemusement as their identities finally dawned on him, and Miss Adler burst out laughing.

“Mr. Holmes,” Miss Hooper whispered before sinking to the floor in a dead faint.


End file.
